


Not Done Yet

by Hekate1308



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hekate1308/pseuds/Hekate1308
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He might not have been Sherlock Holmes, but he was still a DI, and something about Sherlock's suicide felt wrong. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Done Yet

He might never have been as intelligent as Sherlock Holmes but, after almost thirty years in the force, there were a few things he simply knew. He knew when a suspect was lying, he knew when a crime scene had been staged –

And he knew when something felt _wrong_. When everything seemed clear but there was this nagging doubt in the back of his head, telling him that he didn't know everything there was to know.

This instinct had served him well even before Sherlock decided to run into a crime scene because he was curious. The same instinct had told him that Sherlock wasn't just a cocaine addict who had got lucky and had led him, two weeks later, to the young man's small, messy flat with the offer of helping out on cases if he got clean.

And this same instinct now told him that Sherlock's suicide... It didn't fit. The consulting detective would never take his own life. No matter what happened. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't take his own life.

And even if he did, he'd never do it in such a fashion. Greg knew the consulting detective, knew he had a heart despite his attempts to hide it, and he was certain that Sherlock wouldn't commit suicide in front of his best and only friend.

Neither would he lie about his cases. Greg had read John's statement again and again in the week after Sherlock's death, he knew it by heart, and it simply didn't make any sense. Sherlock couldn't have invented all the crimes, and he certainly had solved the cases Greg had called him in on.

John had made clear in his statement that he didn't believe one word of it either. Donovan and Anderson did, of course they did. They had after all been the first to voice their doubts. And he had believed him, like the idiot Sherlock had always told him he was.

And here he was, thinking about Sherlock's suicide every day, the feeling only growing stronger.

At first, he had been unsure if he was right or whether he simply clung to the belief that Sherlock could still be alive because he felt guilty and alone ever since the consulting detective had jumped. He and John barely talked to one another. He understood of course why the doctor didn't want to see him and respected his wishes. But it still hurt – they had been friends, quite good friends, even, and now, when he called, the doctor only answered his questions reluctantly and hung up as soon as possible.

Mycroft, naturally, didn't kidnap him anymore, now that the reason for it was gone, and Greg had been surprised when he'd realized that he missed the annoying sod too, in a way, because they had become friends of sorts over the years. Maybe he had finally gone mad, like Donovan had always predicted he would, if he spent enough time around Sherlock Holmes.

Some days, Greg thought that even Molly was avoiding him. That hurt more than it probably should have, but then again, she had had a crush on Sherlock for almost as long as he could remember.

At least Mrs. Hudson still treated him like she always had. He had called on her one day shortly after John had moved out, not sure what to say, but determined that he would look after the dear old lady who had kept Sherlock alive single-handedly until he and John had come along. She had been glad to see him and stuffed him with tea and biscuits, despite his attempts to tell her that he really wasn't hungry. In the end, he'd been happy that he'd stayed, though, and ever since then, he'd tried to see her regularly.

It had been six months now since Sherlock's suicide, and thinking about it didn't get easier. But the feeling that something wasn't right grew stronger every day. He really tried to tell himself that it was just wishful thinking, but after a while, he gave up and decided to investigate anyway. At least the last hope would be gone then, and he would hopefully be able to move on.

Not that investigating Sherlock's suicide would be easy. Yes, the police had a file with John's statement and Molly's autopsy report, but other than that... No one had been allowed on the roof. The Secret Service had made sure of that. Naturally, the public didn't even know they had been involved.

Something – or perhaps even someone – must have been on that roof. The Secret Service had been there for hours.

And Greg was determined to find out why.

And where was Sherlock's phone? He had called John to say goodbye and the phone hadn't been on the body. But why would the Secret Service take the consulting detective's phone? He certainly hadn't worked for his brother – Greg almost snorted at the thought – and therefore there could be no information on the phone Mycroft would consider sensitive.

However...

There was one person who had never gone anywhere without this phone, one person who would want to take it with him...

If Sherlock was alive...

Greg swallowed. Now he had definitely lost it. He was almost convinced Sherlock was still alive because his phone was missing. Really, evidence got lost all the time –

But how likely was it that Mycroft would allow any evidence about his brother's death to get lost?

Greg simply couldn't imagine it. Mycroft might have made some mistakes – John had told him, shortly after the funeral, apparently unable to keep it in, how the British Government had betrayed his brother – but he wouldn't allow Sherlock's phone to disappear. Not if it was one of the things his brother had left behind.

Obviously he couldn't ask Mycroft. If Sherlock was still alive, he would be the first to know. But who to ask –

Of course. Anthea.

Mycroft's PA. Greg didn't even know her real name – she had told him all those years ago that her name was "Anthea" and was apparently still using it, according to John – but she was the one person Mycroft Holmes trusted. Therefore, if Sherlock Holmes should be alive, she would know.

Realizing that Anthea was his best chance was easy; contacting her was not. How could he possibly get in touch with the PA of the British Government without said British Government spying on them? He didn't even have her number.

And then she had him kidnapped, right under Mycroft Holmes' nose.

Or rather, during a conference in Switzerland even Mycroft Holmes couldn't get out of and had to attend.

Naturally, he didn't even know Mycroft was out of the country and felt apprehensive as soon as the limousine stopped next to him. Mycroft most likely already knew how often he had accessed the file on Sherlock's suicide and was going to tell him to stop investigating.

But, as it turned out, he wasn't even taken to an abandoned warehouse. Anthea was waiting for him in the limousine and asked, as soon as he had got in, without looking up from her phone, "Have you tried texting him?"

He was almost ashamed to admit it, but he had. Now and then. When he couldn't help himself, when he felt lonely, he'd tried to text the consulting detective, only to receive a message that told him the number was no longer available.

He took a deep breath. "If I'm right, you know I have".

"Perhaps you didn't send the right text". Anthea still didn't look up from her phone.

"And what is the right text?"

She didn't answer, and he added, "Why would you tell me this?"

She looked up, and he was surprised how tired she looked. "Because I've looked after him for years, and I know what he needs".

"And Mycroft?" he asked.

"Who do you think convinced him he needed to go to Switzerland?" was all she said.

Then the limousine stopped, right where they had picked him up, and Greg got out, confused. But also deliriously happy. Anthea had just told him that Sherlock was alive. Now all he needed to do was to send a text that would make the consulting detective answer.

That was easy enough. In the evening, sitting in his flat, he wrote "Do you really want me to give John false hope?" and sent it. He knew he was manipulating Sherlock, he knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help it. He needed him to answer. He needed the world to make sense again.

The answer came five minutes later. Five minutes in which he'd gone from firmly believing he did the right thing, to doubting what he was doing to finally contemplating calling Donovan and asking her to have him taken to a mental hospital. But it came.

"We both know you wouldn't."

It wasn't signed, just like his text hadn't been, but it didn't need to be.

"He deserves to know" he replied. This time, the answer took less than a minute.

"He can't". For a moment, Greg wondered if he should ask for a reason. But knowing Sherlock, he would either elaborate on his answer or not add anything at all, so he waited. Soon enough, another text arrived.

"He wouldn't be able to make the world believe he was still grieving. He wouldn't be safe."

Naturally. John was important, Lestrade wasn't – or, at least, Sherlock had yet to show any concern for his safety. Greg swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. After all, he hadn't expected it. Maybe he didn't deserve it, after all that –

Another text.

"You are a far better actor".

And, strangely, that comforted him. Made him happy, in a way, even though Sherlock had done nothing but tell him that he was better at deceiving people than John. But this meant he had considered Greg's ability to act before answering his text. He had been worried about Greg as well.

"How long?" he asked. Because Sherlock would come back, was sure to come back, had to come back. They couldn't live without him.

"I have to finish what I've started."

At least it was confirmation that he planned on coming back. Greg felt that he wouldn't get him to share anything else. So he simply sent "Take care".

All he got in reply was "Take care of John".

Realizing that the conversation was at an end, he turned off his phone, hoping to get enough sleep for once, and went to bed.

Only to find the next morning, when he turned it on again, that Sherlock had sent another text. Just three words.

"And of yourself".

And, just like that, he knew that he would. He would force John to go out for a pint this evening, he would visit Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, he would make sure that all of Sherlock's friends were fine when he returned.

Because return he would.

And their world would finally be how it was supposed to be again.


End file.
